I hugged Tilly, longer than necessary, kissed the top of her head, and watched her take Lois’s leash like it was a very important job. As they climbed into the car, she waved at me through the window, all confidence and trust.
I finished loading up my truck, then shut the door, resting my hands on the steering wheel for a second to let myself breathe before heading toward the park—toward the Taste-Off, the crowd, and the woman I was still quietly hoping would choose to meet me there.
I told myself to keep moving, to focus on the list in my head—tables, burners, the cooler in the back—but the space she left followed me out the door.
Cara had texted earlier, casual on the surface, careful underneath.I’ll be there. I can jump in if she can’t.I appreciated it more than I could say, even as my chest tightened around the wordif. I didn’t want a backup. I wanted Eliza. I wanted her to choose this, to choose us, without feeling like she was walking into a storm. So, I drove toward the park with my jaw set and my heart wide open, quietly hoping she’d be there.
The park looked transformed.
White tents lined the green grass, as if lifted straight out of a movie set with their canvas tops snapping lightly in the breeze. Strings of café lights crisscrossed overhead, already glowing faintly even though the sun was still high, as if the town couldn’t help itself—it wanted this to feel special. Booth signs fluttered, chalkboards leaned against table legs, and volunteers dressed in Honeybrook Hollow sweatshirts moved with clipboards and purpose, pointing people where to go, laughing as they did it.
The air smelled like butter and sugar and onions, hitting hot pans. Savory drifting into sweet. Sweet drifting back into savory. The kind of smell that makes you hungry even if your stomach is already tight with nerves.
I parked near the edge of the grass and hauled my supplies from the truck, nodding to familiar faces as I went. People called my name—asked how the Pennywhistle was doing, joked about judges being bribed with extra portions, and wished me luck as if it mattered to them, too. Maybe it did. The Pennywhistle wasn’t just my place. It was theirs. I knew when I arrived here that the Pennywhistle belonged to the town as much as to me.
Our booth sat near the center, close enough to the stage that I could see the microphone and the banner stretched behind it in cheerful, charming letters:
Honeybrook Hollow
Taste-Off
Cara was already there, sleeves rolled up, hands on her hips like she was ready to kick Graham’s butt just as much as I was. She flashed me a look that saidSee? You’re not alone.I smiled back, and we started unpacking, setting out cutting boards, lining up knives, and checking the burners.
I kept glancing up. Toward the paths. Toward the crowd thickening at the edges of the park.
Toward the place where Eliza might appear.
I tried to focus on the tasks at hand—chopping the vegetables, setting up for the roux, the timing that mattered if you wanted everything to come out right. This kind of cooking usually calmed me. Today it didn’t. The noise pressed in, the laughter scraped against my nerves, and every second dragged as my eyes kept drifting to the place where Eliza should’ve been standing. I stood there in the middle of it all—the lights, the noise, the town I’d chosen—and waited, hoping with everything I had left that Eliza would still choose me too.
“Alright,” Cara said briskly, stepping in beside me and tying on an apron. “Until she gets here, I’m your emotional support sister-slash-sous-chef. Give me a knife and tell me what to chop, or send me over to Graham’s booth…” She flashed me an evil smile.
I huffed a quiet laugh. “I’ve got this. You don’t have to?—”
“I know,” she cut in gently, already reaching for a carrot to chop. “I want to.”
She was already elbow-deep in responsibility, which was impressive considering she’d insisted she was “just moral support.” She had a clipboard now. I hadn’t given her one. I didn’t know where it came from.
“Smile,” she said, nudging me with her hip. “You look like you’re about to defend a case instead of serve pot pies.”
“I used to do that professionally,” I muttered.
She grinned. “Relax. People like you. Also, Tilly just told three strangers you’re the best cook in the state, so expectations are reasonable.”
I glanced toward the crowd instinctively.
No Eliza.
Our table looked good; everything was now in its place, like the Pennywhistle had stretched itself outdoors for the night.
Cara started chopping carrots with efficient confidence. “She’ll come,” she said softly, not looking at me. “Eliza doesn’t miss things that matter. And this matters. I know she’ll be here.”
I nodded, even though my chest ached with the effort of holding onto that belief.
Across the park, Graham’s booth gleamed. It was sleek and polished, all matching signage and curated aesthetics. He’d entered both categories—Sweet and Savory—and his staff moved around him in quiet, synchronized steps. He looked perfectly at ease, like this was exactly the stage he’d expected.
Then the speakers crackled.
“Well, hello, Honeybrook Hollow!” Mabel’s voice carried across the park, bright and delighted, and the crowd cheered like she was a celebrity—which, in this town, she absolutely was.
